I am in the beechwood.

A low sun skims the russet robe of fallen leaves

denied access save in pools,

pools where movements betray the shrew

and the question mark of squirrel

pulling the threads of the robe then they are gone.

The muscles of roots stretch out the trunks

fungus clamped.

Jays descend to leave their signatures

graffit in the enveloping shroud.

Cracks are heard and scuffles

but the world itself is deadly still and then

like a whisper comes the burrowing train,

a venturing whistle somewhere over a bank.

A liberty taken with nature's royal plan and

as its regulator shuts down for the descent

 

The beechwood once more falls into its russet dream.